


r for reverence

by under_a_linden_tree



Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), ace friendly, going to the cinema
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: Things are progressing slowly but steadily after a first date, so Crowley takes Aziraphale to the cinema, like he promised. It's a good idea.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A life much grander than he dared imagine [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671922
Comments: 12
Kudos: 49





	r for reverence

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, a thank you to my beta reader akinmytua. Your feedback keeps me going!
> 
> The titles in this series are taken from the first work in it, this (our) side of safe.

Considering the fact that the film is several decades old by now, the line in front of the tiny, run-down cinema is unaccountably long. Really, there could hardly be _that_ many people interested in a re-run of a twenty year old James Bond film in all of London and yet, the line continues down onto the street. The sky is grey and clouded, which may account for the sudden interest in the sheltered safety of a neighbourhood cinema.

Aziraphale’s nose is scrunched in that adorable way of his and he is concentrating on the tattered film posters surrounding the booth, where a very bored teenage girl prints tickets and hands out popcorn, sodas and pretzels.

“You know, Crowley, I think I recognise that face,” the angel says and nods towards a dark haired actress, lips painted red and brows raised in surprise. “I think I met her at a reception back in the late 30s.”

“Huh?” Crowley says, scrambling for coins in his jacket pocket. “Never met her, but I’ve seen some of her films. She’s good.”

“Oh yes, she was a very good person.”

That’s not at all what Crowley meant, but before he can respond, the girl hands over their tickets. “Want something else?”

“I think popcorn would be lovely. Thank you, my dear.”

Aziraphale positively beams when she hands him the bucket and Crowley doesn’t think he could ever get tired of that. The simplicity with which he shows joy is a fascinating thing, how eased and calm it is these days. It makes Crowley happy.

“C’mon angel, let’s find our seats,” he says.

Not without a little hesitation, Crowley lays a gentle hand on Aziraphale’s elbow and nudges him to the left, away from the queue and towards the screening. That’s what humans do, right? Guide their people down the right way. An odd thing for a demon to do, isn’t it?

The room is cast in a pleasantly dim light and people are slowly pouring in with their drinks and snacks, chattering away. Crowley has ensured that they will stay far away from their own seats. Aziraphale slips past him and claims the one by the wall, making himself comfortable within a moment. One would hardly believe this is his first time in a cinema for well over fifty years.

Crowley folds himself into his own seat, precariously balancing the bucket of popcorn on his knee. The pre-film ads start to roll and the lights are dimmed, which doesn’t stop the couple in front of them from bickering about their sodas.

Aziraphale’s eyes, however, widen. “Could you imagine! They exchange the news for advertisements these days. Whatever happened to them?” 

Oh yes, another one of Crowley’s schemes that backfired. Of course, the ads tend to make people itch with impatience, which is perfectly demonic in and of itself since impatience may lead to aggression et cetera, but they don’t leave Crowley unaffected, either. They bore him out of his mind.

“Dunno. Liked the news, though,” Crowley lies. “Always something fun on the news.”

“Debatable. Hush now, the film is starting.”

It is _not_ starting yet, for after the regular advertisements, there just _has_ to be another round of trailers.

* * *

“So this is James Bond?” Aziraphale asks, a couple of minutes into the film. There’s a small line between his brows, tight with concentration.

Crowley could explain about all that, different actors, books and films spanning across decades, a whole universe of characters that get re-interpreted over and over again, but he doesn’t. He simply indulges the angel.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale answers and returns his attention to the screen.

Just a moment later, it wavers again, this time towards the bucket of popcorn.

* * *

Half an hour later, Aziraphale’s hand is hovering over his knee again, reaching out for another bit of popcorn, but his fingers scrape across the bottom of an empty bucket. Crowley smiles at the small _oh_ that escapes the angel.

“Mindless enough for you?” he asks, pointing at the action sequence running across the screen.

Aziraphale nods absentmindedly. He is engrossed with the film. It’s like putting a smartphone into a very old person’s hands and watching them realise the wonders of modern technology. The idea that a random old film might spark so much joy for him is a marvelous thing indeed.

* * *

The angel’s rapt attention continues. He seems to be quite taken with the film, or perhaps it’s more with the concept of seeing _a_ film in general. His brows are drawn together and his lips are parted ever so slightly. The light from the cinema screen tints his pale curls in reds and oranges, lets shadows flicker across his face.

Crowley has lost interest in the film a while ago. Instead, he watches as the colours change, paint him in blues and greys, highlight different parts of his face; his slightly upturned nose, his soft cheeks, his rounded chin, the dark lines of his brows. He’s gorgeous.

If he weren’t entirely taken with the angel by now, this gentle beauty would tip him over.

* * *

Crowley has rested his arm between them a while ago. It’s nothing big, just a bit of comfort - well, _until_ the car chase happens.

Aziraphale tenses for a few moments, his lips parted with suspense. Of course, he doesn’t know yet that the action hero _always_ makes it out alive. _Cute_ , Crowley would think if that weren’t entirely too sappy for him.

There’s a flash of light and a car is crashing and then a subtle touch grazes his hand. It remains there for a moment, tenderly resting, before Aziraphale slowly withdraws it and folds his hands in his lap.

(And _goodness_ , wasn’t it a great idea to take him here?)

* * *

After the car chase ends, there is not much left of the film. The rest passes in silence, except for three children - well, teenagers, rather - laughing a couple of rows down. Then the film is over and the two remain behind, letting the impressions sink in.

“How did you like it?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale’s eyes are still wide, still enchanted with the magic of a surprisingly decent film. He scrambles for words for a moment, then he smiles and asks another question instead.

“Can we do this again, sometime?”

“‘Course we can, angel, anytime,” Crowley says, as he stands up and extends a hand towards him. “Have you ever seen _Raiders of the Lost Ark_?”

Aziraphale smiles as he takes Crowley’s hand and gets up. “Can’t say I have.”

On their way out, Crowley describes the plot of all four Indiana Jones films, stopping when the story gets interesting until Aziraphale insists they must see them together. It’s nice to think about that, future plans for Saturday nights.

During the film, the weather has become even worse. Now the rain is finally pouring down, cool and quiet. Crowley scrunches his nose, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind.

“We can walk, the bookshop’s just two blocks away. And the Bentley is parked there, of course.”

“Sure,” Crowley says and then he listens for a while, soaks up Aziraphale’s opinions of the film while his clothes soak up the rain.

The ten minutes’ walk between the cinema and the bookshop passes quickly, and before long, Crowley finds himself on the step in front of the shop, where it seems like goodbyes are in order.

“Well, I suppose we should get ourselves dried up,” Aziraphale says and smiles tentatively. “I’ll just head inside and uh - we’ll see each other.”

“Lunch next Friday, right?”

“Yes, dear.”

An even warmer joy spreads across Aziraphale’s face. He likes that look on the angel’s face, this calm serenity. It reminds him that there’s nothing to stop him from enjoying it and ensuring it will return soon.

“Then… goodbye, Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

And for a split second, instead of moving away, he leans in closer and kisses his check. It’s nothing more than a light contact, like a breeze passing by, leaving a rush of warmth behind and disappearing. His lips aren’t as soft as Crowley would have imagined ( _imagined_ , yes, it’s not a crime to think it _now_ ) and they are slightly wet with the falling rain and yet, he wouldn’t have it in him to complain, because it’s Aziraphale’s mouth and it’s warm and it’s _there_.

Crowley blinks and he is gone, already slipping inside and letting the door fall closed behind him.

See, if Crowley wasn’t quite so dumbfounded that moment, he would have been able to notice two things: Firstly, that he was standing in front of the bookshop in the rain, muttering incoherent syllables to himself, while slowly getting rather drenched. Secondly, that on the other side of the door, a rather jittery angel was leaning against the glass, trying to suppress the frankly ridiculous need to draw yet another deep breath.

And then the door opens again, just a crack, and Crowley is pulled from his thoughts, because Aziraphale is gifting him a small smile.

“Oh, I forgot,” he says. “Do mind how you go, the road is very slippery tonight.”

“Yeah,” Crowley responds and then, because this answer doesn’t seem to satisfy the angel. “Yeah, ‘course I will.”

Aziraphale’s expression softens even more and a sudden serenity threatens to swallow them both, never let them go again, fixed right here on the step to the bookshop.

“Goodnight, then,” Aziraphale says finally, and closes the door.

By the time Crowley reaches his car, he has come to realise that this, too, might be a common occurrence in the future that lies ahead of them. It’s not a bad outlook at all. In fact, the idea that it could happen again next Friday lets him rejoice unlike anything he would have expected just a few hours ago.


End file.
